Say Something
by transcendencesofcadence
Summary: Ian has ultimately come to the conclusion that Mickey cares about nobody but himself, and there is nothing stopping him from leaving Chicago and leaving these feelings for Mickey behind. Mickey knows the words that need to be said to keep Ian home, but how can he say them? A slightly different scenario taking place when Ian comes to tell Mickey that he's leaving for basic training.


"Don't."

The words fell from his lips and dripped with certainty. His eyes were struggling with a brewing storm of tears that teased the crease on either side of his nose. The redhead turned back to the slightly shorter man and felt his breath hitch as he noticed the glimmer of light dancing off the bridge of his nose. He gained composure and lifted his head just slightly so as to appear unscathed, "Don't what?" He replied.

"Just…" The once so unbreakable and strong-minded boy was now falling apart at the seams, he turned his back to the redhead and sat on the edge of the bed, the beer in his left hand drooping enough to let a drop or two hit the floor, the bitterness of the thick liquid mixed with a number of tears that had since broken free.

"Just what, Mick?" Ian Gallagher's voice saying Mickey Milkovich's name, or a variation of it, was enough to have Mickey choking for air. He had since abandoned the beer on the carpet and stood, once again facing Ian, except this time his face was saturated with tears, the storm completely taking over his emotions and wreaking havoc on the hardass that had given up on trying to hold them back, "Jesus, Mick-" Ian started again.

"No, you know what, I will not let you make me out to be some bitch." Mickey's fists were clenched, but he had this habit of talking with his hands, something that Ian never understood but figured it was an Italian thing seeing as he had seen it in movies so much. Mickey was waving his hands as he took a step towards Ian, who was now in the doorway, hands in his pockets, his head hung low, "You wanna fucking leave? Fine. Fucking leave. See if I care."

"But you do care." Ian muttered.

"The fuck you just say to me?" Mickey closed the space between the two of them and buried one of his fists in Ian's scarf, rather than pulling his chin up to meet the slightly taller redhead's, he instead brought it down to his level, their foreheads nearly a breath apart, "Say it again, say it again and I'll make that red hair of yours go white." Mickey's voice was now dripping with venom, yet shaking with every breath, he soon realized just how close the two boys were and retreated into his shell of discomfort, releasing Ian and taking a quick step back, wiping off any emotions on his jeans as though they were contagious and could seep through the skin of his hands.

"I said," Ian breathed after a moment, "That you do care." Ian didn't wince as Mickey turned on his heel and clipped the side of his head with a balled up punch, didn't wince again when Mickey pushed on both of his shoulders and threw another fist into his chest, Mickey noticed this quickly and let out a mumbled "Fuck" before retreating to his bed, his back to Ian once more.

"Of course I care, can't have the best lay of my life going off to towelhead central and get himself blown up by a goddamn camel." His wall was back up but quickly collapsed when he felt the weight on his bed shift just slightly. Ian had a hand just behind Mickey's back, playing with the throw blanket's loose strings as the room filled up with tension and heavy breathing.

"It's actually usually not camels that blow soldiers up, you know." Ian murmured, "I've read that it is actually more humans than anything. You know, suicide bombers and such, they have a soft spot for animals, which is kind of weird considering they're over there eating-"

"Don't go." Mickey interrupted.

"Why not?" Ian pushed.

"Don't make me fucking say it, man." Mickey rolled his eyes and turned his body just slightly so that he could meet Ian's eyes. The look Ian gave Mickey knew that if Mick didn't say it, he would lose him, he would see him walk out that door and not a single thing would be heard from him for four years. Four years without Ian Gallagher? Mickey had had a hard time making it through the honeymoon in an abandoned warehouse just down the street from the Alibi with his Russian wife without thinking about how the fuck his carrot top was doing, what he was doing, who he was doing.

Another mumbled "Fuck" and Mickey was face to face with Ian, he sat indian style with his hands clenched in his lap, the words were vibrating in his mouth, rattling from tooth to tooth and off the tip of his tongue at least a half a dozen times before he finally opened his mouth. He surprised himself when he was able to make eye contact with an expectant Ian, and the words that had once twisted themselves in so many different ways and forms inside the deepest and darkest pits of his heart were now rolling off his tongue as though they were the easiest things in the world to say, "I love you."

Ian's eyes widened in surprise, as did Mickey's. Mick was expecting the word "care" to take place of the word "love" but as much as he wished he could retract it or ask for a do-over or god-forbid get his hands on one of those fucking remotes from that Adam Sandler movies, there it was. Ian got what he wanted, and Mickey somehow felt the tightness in his chest begin to unravel.

"Will you stay?" Mickey was looking down at his hands, picking out the pieces of gravel and dirt from beneath his nails. Ian smirked from across the bed and leaned to close the space between the two of them once more. Ian's hand snaked behind Mickey's neck and just as Mick looked up, their lips had connected. Ian was now on his knees on the bed, holding Mickey's face between his hands, the two of them losing themselves in a kiss that finalized the conversation without a single word.


End file.
